Fallout London
by Steve Hawkins
Summary: On the other side of the Atlantic, the resource wars have devastated the area. In 2202, however, a couple of teens from a small town are making a leap into the City, and into a world more dangerous than ever before.
1. Prologue

_This is the first project that I am trying on here that I plan on committing to, so I'd like a lot of feedback to this story. This part is a prologue, and will be an introduction to a character that'll break up drama and dialogue with a new storyline parallel to the action. Not to say that there won't be much action. There'll be a lot of it. It'd be a bad action story if there wasn't much action. But I'll stop talking your ear off, and let you make what you want of it. Please Question Query or Comment on anything about the story. Fans make me want to make more of them, while hate makes me want to improve. An eerie silence just makes it all seem pointless though… _

He had two guns, but not what he expected. His service weapon and a backup. The backup was a factory-fresh Beretta M9/92F, an ancient weapon, but strangely new, implying recent creation or extremely well looked after. The strange weapon though was the one he held. It was a massive gun; 8 foot long, chrome, and had written down the side _AE11 Rifle service number 001093_. The massive gun held under the left arm. The other strapped to his left ankle.

Both still in their holsters.

There's a strict protocol for bringing the career of a follower of the Road to a premature end. It demanded that his Beretta be taken out. Placed in his right hand. Curl his index finger through the trigger guard. Release the safety. Discharge at least one round. Give them the final dignity of appearing to whoever found his body that he'd at least gone down fighting.

Justice Knight Martin always followed those rules before. With an African. Two Tribals. A shopkeeper. A raider band. Even a Frenchman, on one bizarre occasion. But that evening, he left the guns where they were. He didn't even loosen the straps that held them in place. He just left him lying face down on the strip of the coarse office carpet, picked up the green metal flask he had been so desperate to take, and walked away.

He was a knight, just like him. The insult was deliberate. Calculated. Unmistakable for anyone from his world.

And only ever paid to a traitor.


	2. Chapter 1

**OK, lucky everyone, two posts in a day! Whoo! My first one was quite short, so I am posting this to make my first contribution longer. If you have QQC, please say them!**

"_The world of their day is pretty much the same as ours. Between generations, despite the technological changes, things haven't changed that much - The human heart is still the same._"

Accredited to Knight Grand Cross (Justice) Destin

Joshua Horn had been stealing all morning. So had his sister, Jericho, but she was in a different part of the city. Josh knew it was better that way. He said that Jericho isn't safe to be with at the moment; not here. Josh was casually thinking about this when he felt something shove across his side, and knocked him backwards onto the pavement, still holding the duffel bag he had been carrying.

"Shove off, rat", said a women, towering over him. By her overalls, Josh guessed she was working in one of the few shops nearby. _I __was__ shoving off_, thought Josh. _I was minding my own business. _But he didn't say anything. He stayed crouching on the pavement. He was kicked in the small of his back. It hurt, but he twisted his neck to see the woman holding a little girl by the hand.

"Go on," the woman said, "shift, you rat."

People were stopping to see the commotion.

_Too many people,_ Josh thought, _too many watching me_.

Josh was frightened. Somebody kicked his right arm, just above the elbow. Jericho would have known what to do, but Josh just cowered, clutching the bag. A gobbet of spit hit him under his left eye. He wanted to strike back, to pick up a brick and hit it on her head, again and again and again… but that would just draw more attention.

A needle of fear stabbed at his chest. He didn't want the Heralds to come.

Josh sprang to his feet as quickly as he could and started running. Running from the throng of citizens. They shouted after him, but he did not look back. _Never turn around,_ he thought; _not when you're running_.

He darted through a creaking side-passage, through a fire escape, and around a broken down building to Canary Wharf.

The Wharf was ramshackle remains of pre-war skyscrapers and destroyed heaps of wreckage from when the bombs fell. Joshua started his slow ascent up the decrepit floors of the ancient Canada One Tower; a wreck of a building that used to dominate the landscape of the Pre-War London area. Its massive staircases has collapsed over years of neglect _– a small wonder how it remains up at all_, Josh pondered, as he slowly but surely slipped through the doors and attempted to reach the top. Not before, of course, going to Devil's Elbow to collect some water. One had to, of course, be extremely careful of the mirelurks, but Joshua knew the area well; after all, it was the home of the rats.

Here, black tongues of water lapped at slime green quays and slid into dank tunnels where boats and barges had long since ceased to dock. Shrouded in mist and stinking of filth was a place for tramps and bag ladies, for booze drinkers and jet addicts, for thieves and murderers. Devil's elbow was where things came when they had nowhere else to go; when they had sunk below the jagged spread of the city and slipped through the sprawling slums of the favelas. Her shifting mud banks and sluice gates draped in weed became the final resting place for broken bottles, mangled metal, knives, clubs, and the swollen dead, washing up by the dark waters of the Elbow.

The wharf was also a place for the rats; the children with no homes, no families, and no fear about stealing today what they'll never get tomorrow. Hundreds of them lived in poverty; working together in gangs, slipping out of the tunnels and up to the intrusive noise and meagre wealth of Fort Hope, steal what they need, and vanish back into the dark, wet places below.

In their world of rotting wood and crumbling brick where time was measured by the constant slapping of cold, dirty water, they were safe. Safe from rain, safe from snow, safe from the hateful stares of city dwellers, but most of all, safe from the Heralds.

The Heralds came in white boots, military crosses, dogs and cattle prods, to track and trap the street rats. They came whenever an infestation of rats had been located. They were part of the police.

The special part. The part with their own detention units and unusual methods of interrogation. A street rat caught by a Herald knew they he or she would never see the light of day again. The Heralds were very efficient.

Joshua was better at fighting than anyone else in his gang, while Jericho was the cleverest, so they had won themselves a deep ledge built inside one of the higher floors. The lip of the ledge jutted out over Devil's Elbow and there was a recess at the rear where empty wooden barrels and boxes had been stacked, piled with rust stained rope. The ledge was as smelly and gloomy and filthy as the rest of The Wharf, but because it was so high up - it was reached by a gantry about thirty feet above the water - it was much drier. Here lived Joshua and Jericho. It was here they would meet to take the morning's takings.

Josh eventually reached the crevasse that served as their meeting place. He did not look out of place, despite his appearance. Sweat trickled down his clothes; even though the day was another hot one, he wore a thick Merc outfit; narrow black trousers and a tatty but firm jacket protected him from the ground, even though the trousers and sleeves had deteriorated over months of use, crawling about in the harsh world of Hope.

Underneath the jacket was a shirt that a long time ago had been white, but turned perfectly grey. The clothes were stiff with dirt. Josh's hair was thick yet straight, and stuck to his forehead.

His eyes were as brown as his hair and were very big; he kept them on the rubble over which his bare feet slapped. Some of the street rats watched him pass, eyes lingering on the bag that he was carrying. He wasn't frightened of the other gangs as much as getting back without anything to show for the morning's graft. He gripped the bag more tightly.

Joshua slowed to a walk, but even when a cluster of bigger, older rats unfolded themselves from the innards of a burnt-out car they had scavenged to try and fix up, hopelessly, they turned and grinned at Josh, and said hello. He kept his eyes down and said nothing in reply. After all, he was Joshua; of course they were nice to him.

There were more than a hundred rats in his gang, but the only person that Josh looked for as he edged his way into the tunnel where they lived was Gemma - he had some 'lurk meat for her - but he couldn't see Gemma anywhere.

Joshua stepped over legs and pushed round bands of squatting children. He walked past Matt, Luc and Jonah. They were his sister's friends, which meant that they spent less time fighting with her and argue with him as they did fight and argue with everyone else. He heard them greet him, and Josh mumbled a reply, but he didn't look up until he came to the iron ladder that led to the ledge. Up there, he and Jericho sat, above all the other street rats.

Josh climbed the ladder, and found Jericho inspecting her loot. Jericho, tall and thin, was holding up a ring. She studied it in the flickering light of the river water for impurities. Her narrow blackened jeans and tatty long-tailed morning coat that she recovered from a bin contained a variety of useful tools; string, matches, marbles, skeleton keys, switchblades, pencils, and, which is now out of its home, a Jeweller's loupe. _Whatever that was_ thought Josh. Her short brown hair was stiff with months of collected grime (no-one entered the river to clean; the place was infested with mirelurks). Josh then saw Jericho turn her head to face him.

"Good work" Jericho said quietly. "Did anyone see you?"

"Don't think so", replied Josh, who walked across to the edge of the building and sat down, legs dangling over the edge, thinking about everything that happened and trying to think whether he was followed or not. It was a huge problem if he wasn't.

Josh dropped his duffel bag by Jericho's bare feet and sat down in the corner of the room, on the rugged mattress and took a few deep breaths. Neither of them wore shoes for years, and the soles of their feet had grown leathery and hard.

Josh lifted Jericho's bag onto the table in the middle of the room, and looked inside, scowling. "RadAway," he muttered, "and bread rolls. And two apples. What use are two apples?" His hard voice reverberated against the tunnel walls.

Jericho said nothing but lazily took one of the apples and starting eating it.

"More use than one," she eventually said. "And anyway, Joshy, food's food."

"All you ever do is stuff your mash. It's like your half-girl, half-pig. And stop calling me Joshy." Spouted back Josh. He was starving, and they were going to run on empty. Again.

"Yeah, well, you're a cretin." Replied Jericho, taking another bite out of the apple, casually. To most onlookers this would look like a fight, but this was the midday ritual of ridicule before lunch.

After a long, uncomfortable pause - at least for Josh, who couldn't read Jericho's poker face – Josh attempted to make conversation.

"I spent that broken combat knife for the news leaflet," Josh said, "You want the headline?"

"..The London Times? Not that shitty Herald Inquirer?"

"Yes, obviously." The London Times was an independent newspaper, which, while having its credibility knocked back by the masses of Herald newspapers, and The Dark, or the Devil's Advocate media has managed to hold its idea of success, being known to tell the more truthful side of The City. "I don't even know what you want with this. You can't even read."

"I can!" Jericho said defensively. "A bit."

Josh tossed the newspaper in the air, and the pages started to flutter down like birds, before absently drifting into the water. One page floated back to the ledge, and Jericho clutched it, and casted her eyes over the headline. She read aloud, "MORE CHILDREN VANISH". Then, she scrumpled up the sheet of paper and threw it into the air. "Nice children, I suppose."

"Bad things can happen to nice children." Said Josh.

"Bad things happen to bad children," Said Jericho, "but nobody speaks about that. Nobody cares." Josh coughed sharply and spat, pausing to watch the fleck of phlegm trace the same arc as the ball, before landing in the water below, silently.

"Nice shot, Josh." Said Jericho, the reply was a thoughtful nod.

"Anything can happen to us and it doesn't matter," continued Josh, still looking down at the river, "but the moment anything bad happens to a _norm_, it's big news. It matters."

Josh never said anything good about the _norms_, but Jericho wasn't so sure. She thought it must be hard to work around the place, to have to get a job, to look after money. But, then again, these people like that couldn't slip through crowds like oil, couldn't spirit up walls as silent as fog, nor knew how to claw their way out of corners, or how to use drains to vanish when danger came near. They were soft; if they were hurt, they cried. And they hated the rats.

Jericho turned to Josh, quickly. "Were you followed?"

Josh shrugged. "No. You're just paranoid."

"I'm not," protested Jericho, "Someone's been watching me for days and I've seen heralds and they've seen me and they haven't tried to catch me."

"Well, that doesn't make any sense. Heralds hunt us and catch us; that's what they do." Josh then reached out to grab the second apple. "That's what they're there for." He crunched the apple, his teeth gnawing on the apple's precious meat.

"Unless," considered Jericho, "they have followed us so they can find us."

Jericho suddenly and sharply looked at Josh.

"You shouldn't have stolen that pistol, Josh."

"You shouldn't have burnt down that house."

"Perhaps it's me they're after"

"What would they want with _you?_"

Josh shrugged again. "Someone has been watching me. Or something."

Josh crunched the apple, and Jericho put the ring inside one of her pockets before disappearing into the shadows at the back of the ledge. Josh looked at the grey crescents of the dirt between his toenails and wish Jericho would believe him. He _knew_ that someone – or something – had been watching him for weeks. There had been all the signs; footfalls close behind, a stranger's reflection from the water, a figure slipping into a doorway as he approached. He hadn't always been able to see who or what it was, but he could tell that he was being watched. Like the same way a hunter watched a wild animal.

But this morning had been different. It was different because no-one had been watching him. What happened outside the shop didn't count; it wasn't very nice, but it was what happened to the rats. What unsettled Josh was that the watching had stopped.

_If the watching has stopped, _realised Josh, _Something is going to happen._

**Ooh! Dramatic Ending! :D**


	3. Chapter 2

_Turning and turning in the widening gyre_

_The falcon cannot hear the falconer;__  
><em>_Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;__  
><em>_ Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,_

_Accredited to Exiled Knight Grand Commander (Justice) Orexis_

It was midday; a busy time in Fort Hope, but the Wharf was quiet as the dark water flowing around them. Rats were sleeping, talking quietly, repairing clothes, or cleaning weapons and tools. Somebody had lit a fire and put a tyre on it to burn. It smelt better than the river.

The majority of the rats were snoring. Even the look-outs positioned just inside the mouth of the tunnel were nodding sleepily in the heavy calm of the afternoon.

It had been hot for days and mists had been steaming over the river, draping the wharf in humid clouds until the brick walls had been dripping wet. Autumn had been merciless.

But today, the sky was the colour of welcoming soot, and the morning air had been sweet with the smell of approaching rain.

Have you ever felt that strange feeling, how you become aware of a sound without ever noticing when it started? Josh now realised that he could hear a thumping, whirring noise. It was deep and shrill at the same time and was constant although it had been faint at first. Josh sat up to try and hear it better. It sounded like it was coming out of the air and not from anywhere in particular. But it was definitely getting louder.

Warning cries from the look-outs pierced the slumbering gloom of the wharf. Children, no older than eight or nine, appeared from the shadows of the buildings to find out what was happening. They slid down ropes, jumped down floors and slithered out of cracks in the walls. In seconds the wharf was full of them. They were quiet at first, listening at the noise getting closer. The older teenagers and adults knew what the sound was though. One thought echoed terrifyingly in their minds.

_Vertibirds._

"Jericho!" Screamed Josh, "Get up! Now!", as he gave her a kick, and another, until she got up.

She woke quickly, eyes squinting. "Vertibirds! We need to move!"

Beneath the approaching screech and hum, there was another sound, distant at first, but approaching a lot quicker. Dogs.

Luc appeared with Jonah and Matt at the lip of the ledge. Their face gave across a message quicker than words. _Heralds_. Before he could utter any words, an explosion of activity was formed, as a hundred or more street rats began stuffing their belongings into bags or sacks and then scrambling to the tunnel opening to try and get out before the hunters could trap them. There were cries and yells mixing with the screaming of the helicopters, and a splash when one of the rats lost his footing in the panic and fell into the water.

"We'll never get out." Jonah shouted.

The whine of the engines and thump of the rotor blades made Josh's chest vibrate. He couldn't see the helicopters yet, but from the roar of noise and the way that the water was churning and swelling, they must have been hovering just beyond the tunnel openings.

It was complete chaos everywhere below the ledge. There were more rats than there was space on the slippery stones of the quays and with so many of them packed together tightly and pushing, nobody was able to move forwards. There was a lot of shouting. Two small boys were shouting and crying, but no-one could hear them. Nobody noticed them except Josh. He tried to pick out Gemma, but couldn't find her among the jostling bodies.

As Josh and Jericho watched, the rats surged backwards. Some stumbled onto the floor, and some were slammed into the river, which claimed more and more victims, as the throng fell onto one another. Then they saw what made them retreat. Charging out of the mist came a group of heralds, shock batons rained down, breaking bones and spilling blood. Their stainless white combat armour drove the tunnel into a wedge, and at their sides came dogs, savage and unchained.

"There's loads of them!" Luc shouted, "They must have blocked the docks and walks." He puffed out his cheeks. "This is massive."

Josh said nothing because there was nothing to say. He stood above the mayhem lamely and watched forty or fifty heralds plough into the children and deeper into the tunnel. At the rear came a commander, flanked by two Dame Commanders. He wore a throat-mike, and was talking into it. His black lenses of his glasses tilted up at intervals as he scanned the walkways and alcoves on the tunnel walls.

The tunnel was filling with heralds and the rats were forced back. Children screamed, dogs snarled. When all the heralds were inside a thick net dropped down of the mouth of the tunnel, like a portcullis, preventing any escape.

Had Josh been on the opposite bank of the river, or had there been no mist, he would have seen the same thing happening at each of the tunnels along The Wharf. He would have seen legions of Heralds, some armed with rifles, most swinging machetes menacingly, packing the quayside and pouring into the arches. He would have then seen the nets unfurling from the helicopters that hovered over The Wharf like a swarm of locusts. Every entrance to every tunnel was sealed by the nets. Every rat was trapped.

"We've had it." Said Matt to no-one in particular. Josh was silent.

A white gloved hand was pointing up at him. It was the leader of the group, and he was looking straight up at him. His two commanders also turned their impenetrably darkened glasses towards him. A commander spoke into their throat-mike. Five heavily armed Heralds turned their back from those pushing into the tunnel and halted in front of him.

All the time that Josh and Matt was looking at the guards, Jericho had been busy in the shadows behind them.

"Follow me." She shouted.

"Where?" Josh said back, still eying up the hunters, unable to shift his gaze away from the barrels of an L1A1.

"You'll see."

Matt, Luc and Jonah hesitated and then hurried down to where the gantry joined the side of the ledge. The platform was chained to a pair of iron posts that were firm in the stone. He looked for a way to loosen it so that the platform would collapse and the hunters would not be able to reach them. Already, two Heralds were climbing up the ladder.

Jericho gave the chain a yank. The platform fell and swung sideways, but was secure. It had to be.

Josh was still looking over the ledge, however. He saw one of the Heralds who had stayed by the commander raise his rifle to his shoulder and drop his head to the stock, taking aim. The barrel was trained onto Josh.

All Josh could hear was the pounding of his heart as bullets whizzed over his head as he ducked, grabbing at his waist and fumbling for his .22. As each bullet went past him, each closer to his body than the last, his life started flashing by him; his first work, his first bust, and all the things in life he'd miss; a job, a cigarette, Gemma…

A gap in the firing gave Josh all the time he needed. He took his gun from his waist, and looked over his cover and aimed at the Heralds. Surging with panic, he missed. He never shot the gun before, ammo was such a rarity, and cost, he never managed to get any practice, unless you count years ago when he was aiming with a finger-pistol.

The Herald, although shocked at being fired back at, regained composure quickly and aimed, while Josh started hitting the pistol, bullets no longer firing out of the weapon. Jonah shouted blindly, pulling Josh into the escape route, as Josh saw the commander placed his hand on top of the rifle muzzle and push it to the floor.

"Let's go Josh" Jonah urged him, as a Herald made his way up the stairs, metres below them, taking pot shots to get the group.

"Where to?" Josh asked.

"I don't know. Come on."

They ran into the back of Jericho's old room to find boxes strewn about the floor and barrels upended. Where they had been stacked was a low portal in the wall and Jericho was on her knees on the other side, beckoning them on.

"I never knew about this." Yelled Matt.

"Why do you think I wanted the ledge?" Came the reply. "We were always going to need an escape. We always will. Come on."

Stooping, Josh ran through the opening and found himself at the foot of an iron stairwell, with a corridor that sloped down to the left of them.

"We have to get up the stairs, across the roof, and down the fire escape on the far side." Jericho was able to talk without shouting, although the whirr of the helicopter engines still filled the air. "If we get to the bottom on the other side we're OK."

"And if we don't?" asked Luc.

Jericho didn't reply. She turned and charged up the stairs, two at a time, and the rest of the group followed at her hells. They all ran as fast as they could, but there was flight upon flight to the warehouse roof. Josh swallowed the air and his lungs were taut as if they were being crushed. His thighs were screaming hot and her feet were hard to lift. He heard Jericho screaming as well, encouraging everyone to go faster, but the sound of white leather shoes scraping against the iron floor was what made him forget about the pain and run harder.

"Get the target." Snarled the voice behind him. "Kill the others. But you have to get the target. Alive."

Suddenly, a shot rang out from behind Josh, but he kept running, not looking back, and started flinging himself up the stairs. The pace doubled as the first shots rang out, and the door to the outside was in sight. It was dark in the stairwell, but Josh could see a light glimmering, outlining a door. As he reached his sister, the door smashed open and he smashed through the door to the roof, daylight and driving rain.

"What did they shout?" Matt shouted as he caught up with Josh and Jer, running to the edge of the building. They heard a door smash open behind them.

"I didn't hear." Gasped Josh, even though he had. There was no time for questions; no time for blame. The Heralds were coming for them and he didn't know why.

The roof was wide and flat. The air was fresh and cold. They ran to the far side and jumped.

They fell around ten feet, landing on the next building along, and sprinted across it. This was not the first time they had to make their own escape routes on the spot.

Josh saw a ladder on the other side of the building, and raised his arm, pointing at it, while they all kept sprinting, bullets ringing behind them.

They might have reached the ladder. They might have made it to the bottom. But before they ran half way across the roof a helicopter swooped in low and three Heralds dropped from it, blocking their way, two with pistols, one holding a menacingly long sword.

Josh halted. The rest stopped behind him.

"They must really want us." Said Matt, as the helicopter hovered above them and the Heralds started closing in.

Jericho considered their options. They had none.

Luc slipped his hand into his pocket, and grasped a pocket knife he always kept there. It wasn't easy getting the blade open without looking; he did it slowly, without cutting his fingers. The Heralds from the helicopter faced them, pistols at their shoulders, barrels steady and levelled at the children. Rain dripped from the black muzzles.

Jumping cautiously behind them was the commander and two followers that were chasing them. They walked around and faced the children. The commander was not much taller than Josh. He had a lean and hungry face which he thrusts so close that his hatchet of a nose was almost touching his. His lips were pulled tightly against his teeth which he couldn't see, but which he sensed might have been longer than normal and very sharp. He didn't blick and he barely breathed. Rain spotted down the black lenses of his glasses.

_He is smelling me,_ though Chess, and at the same time caught a sour stink of a dog, although there were no dogs on the roof.

The commander stepped back. "We want them. Now take them."

As one of the lieutenants stepped forwards, Luc lunged towards him, knife at throat height. This was unexpected and it was only because the Herald turned his shoulder at the last moment that the knife slashed the air and not flesh. But the Heralds were fast and well drilled. Before Jonah could regain his footing, the lieutenant took his pistol from his holster, aimed, and took three shots, each hitting their mark. Luc, with three shots in the body, fell down to the floor.

Then there was a brilliant flash as electricity soared through the air, as Jonah and Matt fell to the ground in pain, after meeting contact with a large metal pole, and they writhed at the lieutenant's feet. Jericho closed her eyes and Josh looked at the ladder they hadn't been fast enough to reach. All the time the commander kept his hidden eyes on Josh.

The vertibird descended onto the roof, rocking slightly and making web patterns on the rain-slashed concrete. Josh and Jericho's thin arms were manacled as they were frogmarched into it. The two hunters seized opened the helicopter doors, proceeding to throw Josh inside. He landed with a thud and Jericho then was throws inside. She laid there, whimpering.

The commander and the lieutenant with the stun stick climbed into the cockpit beside the pilot. Three Heralds sat in the cargo hold with Josh and Jericho, stun sticks drawn and faces rigid.

"Enjoy the daylight, _rats_." The commander shouted at them, over the noise of the helicopter. "You won't see much more of it." Then he spoke quietly to the pilot.

The helicopter rose, tipped forwards, and plunged into the driving rain.


	4. Chapter 3

_You, darkness, that I come from__  
><em>_I love you more than all the fires__  
><em>_that fence in the world,__  
><em>_for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone__  
><em>_and then no one outside learns of you._

_-Anon_

Josh sat in silence in a corridor inside the detention unit that was called the infirmary. On arrival they had been marched together and ordered to sit on iron chains that were lined against the hard white wall. Then they had been manacled to the chairs. They were left waiting. And waiting. Water had dripped from their clothes onto the floor where it had collected in little pools around their bare feet.

It was very quiet. Sometimes, Josh thought he could hear echoes of shouting or screaming or laughing coming from rooms far away. Sometimes he could hear the clang of iron bars or the boom of steel doors slamming. And there was the sound of clicking.

The sound of clicking came from the far end of the corridor where a scruffy little lady sat on a chair beside the largest steel doors, to the next row of rooms. She was wrapped in a patchwork shawl and tatty plastic bags bulging with whatever they held were crammed under her chair. She wore spectacles and her short grey hair hung loose and scraggy over her face as she worked with a pair of long knitting needles and a ball of green wool, paying no attention to anything else.

"She's still knitting." Whispered Josh. They hadn't spoken fofr over an hour and all the time the old lady had been knitting. "She's one of the bag ladies."

"I wonder what she's here for." Said Jericho.

"Something weird, like murdering children." Whispered Matt, from across the room. He seemed to have recovered well from the previous days – or weeks, they had no concept of time in the never-changing prison – and had started to talk to Josh and Jer; his arm seemed to have a huge scar down it, but nothing else physically noticeable.

"She won't be here for murdering children," Said Jericho, "They'd give her a job for that."

Silence reappeared, apart from the clicking.

Josh sniffed hard and screwed up his face. "This place smells like a swimming pool."

"It's the bleach that they use to clean the blood off of the walls." Said Jericho. Nobody laughed.

The minutes passed, and still nobody spoke.

"What do you think they'll do to us, Jer?" asked Matt after he could bear the silence no longer.

Jericho's head was hanging down almost between his knees as he ran his manacled hands through his spiky white hair before looking sideways and up at his brother.

"We've had it, Matt. They're gonna do us. They've been after us for ages. They hate us."

"The labs?" Said Josh, his voice hoarse.

Jer was silent but she sat up, chains clinking, and leant back against the cold wall of the corridor.

"Not the labs, Josh. No way. No, they can't do that. We're only-"

"Children?" Said Jer. "Street Children. Remember, Josh, we're vermin. Rats. They hate us; us in particular."

"Because we burnt down that building?" Josh said, incredulously. "It was an accident!"

"Well, you just tell them that." Jer said. She close her pale blue eyes, thinking about what she had heard of the labs. They were places where street rats were sent so that they could be used for experiments that were not allowed to be done on norms. Injections, shocks, chemicals, dissections, FEV mutations… Nobody ever returned from the labs. Not human, anyway.

Josh's huge brown eyes closed tight as he squeezed them tighter to stop the burning.

"Crying won't help." Said Jericho.

"Shut up, fly head." Said Matt. "Someone's coming."

Josh looked up and his throat tightened. Two officers clad in the white uniforms bearing the silver cross insignia of the Heralds were walking towards them, boots thudding on the concrete floor. Their dark glasses reflected the bright strip lighting. Josh recognised the shorter of the two as the commander who had caught them. The other Herald was the one that had used the stunstick on Jonah. As he came closer to untie the irons locking Josh to the chair, he realised that there was a huge claw scratch down his face. He did the same to Jer and Matt.

"Follow." The commander spat the word in a thick foreign accent, that Josh couldn't place. _Scarface_ (as Josh has decided to call him) marched on, not turning to look whether they followed him or not. The trio stood up and shuffled after the officers. It was difficult to walk with so much metal hanging from their wrists and ankles. They followed the hunters to where the scruffy little lady was, still engrossed in her knitting. She didn't raise her head until the officers were standing right in front of her, their prisoners clattering to a halt behind them. Then she looked up, smiling gently, but her eyes feral.

"Inquisitor," she said, as if presented with an unexpected but delighted surprise."

Standing close to the shorter officer, the inquisitor, for the second time that day, Josh noticed again his hard, sharp features. His skin was pale and his hair was fuzzy and short and black and his nose arched, broad and flat like half a shark fins. He had long thin nostrils. Josh did not breathe because of the smell of him. It wasn't the usual smell of another person; it smelt… soapy. His black gloved fingers were twitching.

"Inquisitor," she said again, "I would like to have a chat with our… guests."

"All right Beau," He said, trying to be forceful, but strangely intimidated, "They're yours. For five minutes. Just five minutes."

Scarface said nothing. He just looked at the children through his tinted lenses of his glasses and the corners of his mouth tightened.

The old lady dumped her knitting under the chair where the remnants of plastic bags were and stood up quickly, brushing her hands over her skirt. Josh thought she was surprisingly business-like.

"Thank you, Inquisitor," said the lady known as Beau. She stuck her head forwards and tilted it up so that it stopped about an inch from the Inquisitor's. Her lank grey hair flopped all over her broad and wrinkled forehead. "Do we have a room?" She smiled politely.

The taller officer took a key from a pouch in his black tunic jacket which he used to open the steel door. He pushed the door and it swung open, screeching from years of neglect.

"Chains?" She smiled again, pointing at the shackles binding Josh, Matt and Jericho.

The officer began to unfasten the bolts that secured the chains around Matt's wrists. At the same time the Inquisitor grasped Jericho's thin wrists and twisted her arms. She winced because her skin snagged sharply in the Herald's grip. He undid the handcuffs and wrenched away the heavy chain that bound her hands and forearms.

By the time that all the chains had been removed from Josh, Matt and Jericho there was a small heap of ironmongery on the floor. Now that the blood could flow freely through his wrists, Josh realised how sore they were.

The old lady looked from Josh's raw skin to the Inquisitors impassive face.

"You're too kind, Inquisitor." She said.

"We'll wait out here." Growled the Inquisitor, and he signalled to Scarface to leave the room with him.

"Very thoughtful, Inquisitor. I'll know where to find you if I need you." She turned on the heel of her decrepit sandal and stomped into the room beyond the steel door.

The Inquisitor turned to face the children. "Go on, filth," He said. "I don't know what she wants with you but you're getting away with nothing." Then his sharp white face split with a grin revealing teeth, sharp like canines. He whispered, "You're dead. Dead." And he kept grinning as the children walked past him and through the doorway.

When they were all in the room, the bag lady pushed the thick door and it closed with a muffled thud. She walked to a steel table that was standing in the centre of the room and sat on it. Her feet did not quite touch the floor. Josh, Matt and Jericho stood in front of her. Apart from the table and the bright strip lighting the room was bare.

"Now, we don't have long," She said. "You must know that the Inquisitor out there wants your guts for garters. If he has his way it will be _very_bad for you," Her spectacles had slipped down to the tip of her small pink nose and her eyes peered over the top of them. They were grey and a little bloodshot. "I can help you. Possibly."

"Are you just another one of them?" Jericho interrupted, nodding towards the door.

"Jericho." Said the Lady, "You have no idea of who or what I am." As she said that, Jericho flinched for a moment, then stared at the woman.

Josh felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He could feel the air burn up like when heat rises from a fire.

"You're a bag lady." Said Jericho. "A smelly old bag lady." The air then suddenly turned chilly. "You are old and smelly and are either one of them or a weirdo."

Josh never forgot what happened next.

The weird old bag lady shot up from her seat, and lunged at Jericho with the speed of a yao guai, and jabbed her torso with a left hook. The punch had a shocking amount of force, and, with Jericho caught off-guard, she yelped, and rocketed backwards on her chair, and as Jericho started to register that she had been punched, she was on her back, with an immense pain in her side.

The Bag Lady's long fingers, bone white and tipped by blood red nails, were pointing at Jericho and her almond eyes were deep and dark and keen as a tiger's.

When she spoke it was if the world was filled with the boom of her voice. "I am Baroness Styx; Grand Mistress of Justice and the Outer Crescent and you may look upon me and live."

_If anyone sends in some OCs, I'll think about adding them in. Maybe a cameo, maybe a major part. I'm not writing a template; do it yourself, its not hard. Name, race, history, bio, etc. If I don't add you, I'll try and explain why, but it may be as simple as there is not enough of a clash. Also, non-fighters will more likely have a position, as they're easily worked in._

_And also, if you want to ask any questions about the world I am designing, feel free. I'll either work them into the story, or, much more likely, I'll response at the end of the story_


	5. Chapter 4

_You must not fear death!_

_You must stare him in the eye,_

_and force him back into the enemy ranks!_

_-Knight Captain Justice Walker_

Josh and Matt were dumbstruck. Jericho was trembling. Beau smiled kingly. "I'm sorry my loves. I don't like to do that sort of thing, but time is short. Would you listen to me now?"

Josh, Matt and Jericho just stared.

"I will make this as simple as I can so let me start by telling you three things." She held up one stubby finger for them to look at.

"One. We're in London, as you know; but we're only in the _Greater London Outer Crescent_. There are 5 districts; the 2 London crescents, inner and outer, the two Greater London Crescents, the inner and outer, and Knighthood Taurus." Another finger was raised. "Two. It is impossible for normal people to move through these zones. There is too much danger. Also, the outer London crescents are only places able to be inhabited by normal humans. And third," She was displaying three fingers now, showing long, rough, bitten nails. "The Knights are the only humans able to move between the zones."

"What are _The Knights_?" Josh asked; he never heard of the Knights before.

"You've never - Of course, you haven't heard all the stories, have you? Well, children, the Knights were formed from a story of lore; an old book spoke of a mystical place called "Roads", where a group of Knights stood on the edge of an Empire, and held their ground against hordes of enemies."

The three of them stared back at Beau. Matt seemed to be hanging on her every word, while Jericho still seemed to be in shock about what happened moments ago.

"Anyway, children. We need you. Children are not welcome in any of the crescents, but they have their uses." Beau leant forwards, lowering her voice. "They are valuable."

Josh was silent. So were Matt and Jericho.

Beau smiled and nodded. "That's got you, my loves, hasn't it? This is the truth: nobody really likes children. Apart from their parents. Sometimes."

"Nobody likes us at all." Said Jericho.

"Well, you don't know about your parents, do you?" Beau pointed out.

There was a banging on the door and a voice shouted, "One minute, Beau!" She frowned to herself and swept her grey and greasy fringe away from her spectacles.

"Time is such a relative thing, such a nuisance. Always too much of it when you don't need it, and too little when you do."

"She's talking to herself." Whispered Jericho to Josh.

"I'm sorry, dears," said Beau. "I'm breaking too many rules this afternoon but we need to go. I'll help you, but if you can't get out of here, then there's not much use for you for us at all."

"You said you can help us." Said Josh, thinking of the Inquisitor with his sharp face and his hatchet nose.

Beau nodded at him. "Like I said, children are valuable. They have their uses. That's why something is stealing them; stealing them from this crescent and taking them to another place."

"Children can't be stolen," Matt said, in a murmur. "Not like that."

"Can't they?" replied Beau. "Can't they disappear? Think about street children you have known, Josh. Children who have vanished."

"Yeah, OK," said Matt. "They do disappear. But that's just the hunters and sometimes other people, weird people." Beau smiled at Matt, waiting patiently as he spoke. "And, well, you know, things like that."

Then he stopped talking because he knew that Beau was right. Children did disappear.

Beau was still smiling at him kindly. "Exactly, dear. Now as I was saying, there is a link from your crescent to this other place. Now, you see—"

"OK, Beau!" A voice boomed into the room. "Time's up! Come on and open the door!"

Beau sighed, and looked at the trio again. "Here, take this." Beau threw to the three a pistol and two sabres. After a moment of silent discussion, the three threw their hands forwards for the pistol. Josh grabbed it, and checked it out. It was heavier than the .22, and had an depression reading _Colt anaconda_ down the barrel.

The two swords had a curved, single-edged blade and a large hand guard, covering the knuckles of the hand. They were light and balanced, almost like an extension of the hand. Jericho swung her sword hand back and forth, enchanted by the feel.

"We need to go, dears!" Said Beau, in an urgent tone. "We need to leave, before the teeth of the lion start tearing at us."

"The teeth of the lion?" Josh asked, as he pretended to shoot his gun, smiling.

"The ever brooding, ever calculating, ever manipulating Inquisitors." Beau responded, quickly.

"Inquisitors…" Josh said slowly, lingering over the word, enjoying the sound.

Beau frowned. "The Inquisitors are lies and death. Be very careful; they use promises and fear and torment to control the most treacherous tools of all."

"Which are?" enquired Matt.

"People, children, people." Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes. When they flashed open, Josh humped.

"Trust no-one."

"Should we trust you?" Jericho asked.

"Of course not! And at the same time..." Beau pointed to the door behind which the hunters were waiting. "They have orders to let you come with me if you choose to. If you don't come with me you'll be theirs. It won't be nice for you."

"What are you after?" Jericho's eyes narrowed.

"We need you to help us." Said Beau. "We need you to steal something for us."

"Stealing is bad." Said Josh, sounding as if he didn't think stealing is bad at all.

"This stealing isn't bad." Said Beau.

"We're good at stealing!" volunteered Matt brightly.

"I know you are, my love." Said Beau.

"And fighting. We're good at that too."

"That's very nice, dear, it usually comes in handy." Beau removed her spectacles and wiped he lenses with the handkerchief before holding them up to the light to inspect them. Then she put them back on her nose and tucked the grimy rag up her sleeve. She then stared at the trio, and said to them, "Let's go. The ring needs you."


	6. Chapter 5

Justice Knight Martin hated Brahmin.

He would be happy if he never saw a Brahmin again as long as he lived. He had raised Brahmin, he had driven Brahmin, he had unveiled statues of Brahmin, he had gone through countless towns singing and lauding how the Brahmin farmers have kept Londinium alive. Fat Brahmin, breeder Brahmin, milking Brahmin, dying Brahmin young Brahmin old Brahmin, the greatest Brahmin in the world!

He endured the Great Wars, the revolutions, the Reformation of the Road. He endured the Battle for The Outer Cresent, the terrible war for the Thames, even the great siege of Sedova Tower, where, in the frozen, impoverished ruins, he was reduced to eating anything he could – weeds, grass, leather shoes, even rats. He had names for all those rats with their cosmopolitan sympathies, but they are all forgotten now.

He survived assassination attempts, survived close quarter combat, survived sniper duals and barely scraped his way across a collapsing building. And he'd gladly relive all of those moments, all of that danger, all of that risk, for being able to not have to face the Council.

Yet here he was: Justin Martin, travelling up the steps to the grandest building of all. Still weathered of course after the last couple hundred years, but Parliament stands.

Compared to the crowds of jorunalists and TV cameras that used to reside outside the building, the atmosphere was mellow. After the frenzy for the green metal flask and then the long journey home, the arrival of the Justice Knight seemed undramatic. The man simply was grimacing after his long walk, through the sewers, over the roads, through the checkpoints and into the inner Taurus.

Justice Knight Martin's attempt at calmness fooled no one. Even the guards sent to stand on guard around Parliament, pretending a proud stand and holding their laser rifles high, knew that this wasn't a place to be around too long. Even standing outside gave him the chills. Yet still he walked slowly forward and towards the monolith building that was blotting out the sun.

"We think prices will rise", said al-Naimi. Al-Naimi hoped that over the next few weeks, he'll be able to dominate the marketplace in the trade of stimpacks. Of course, his control over this industry is trivial when he already is the major producer of weaponry, armour, and traditional medicine like steroids and antibiotics, but he has heard the properties of stimpacks were the unique item he needed in order to gain the edge in pushing back the creatures threatening the borders between the inner ring and the Taurus. He kept speculating the market. That was his skill, after all, taught generation to generation. Originally, stimpacks cost only…what? Eight crowns? Now his speculation has brought the price up to fifty seven. Soon, the market will crash, and he'll be able to buy them all in a fell swoop. But al-Naimi planned to raise the price by another twenty crowns; the more truculent suppliers would try to crash the market before then, of course, but he only needed a quick word to keep them in line.

People always questioned al-Naimi. Said his control over the market cannot be done. In previous years, again and again has his economic role been challenged, but al-Naimi has always been determined to defy economic law, and no-one questions his iron grip of finance. Production of plasma rifles has gone up and down through his delicate control, bringing up and down the price in the market of these goods whenever the Justice Knights needed them.

This has brought no end of anger from the common people, the rabble. Yes, the demand for combat gear has fell since the peace between two city-states in the inner crescent last year and the area has plunged into recession from the high price of food. Yet he was talking up prices still to keep them in line. Of course he understood that the excessive price will continue to endanger the lives of the people in the area and annoy the crescent to no end, but a limited increase would benefit his interests – would benefit their interests, even if they did not know them.

Nevertheless, despite all his setbacks, his industry, the industry of power, remained the world's biggest business – London's biggest business, at any rate. Ever aspect of mankind's lives depended on power – not government power, of course, but power from the men of the likes of him. Government simply got in the way. For the last century, the commodity has been on a rollercoaster, with the previous shareholders swinging from surplus to shortage and, after the failure of the great war, complete collapse of the economy. Finding the balance has always been difficult: enough power to keep order, little enough power to keep the masses content. Always a target of mistrust, but now he's found that magical sweet spot to keep the Taurus in fighting shape. He's worked out ho—

"Sir?"

"Justice Knight Martin. I have been expecting you. Sit. Take a seat."

Justice Knight Martin anxiously pulled out an old wooden chair and sat on it, leaning forward, still tense. Al-Naimi turned from his desk in his red velour chair.

"I'll take that vial now."


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

_Freedom can only be gained if we take it. By force._

-_A Traitor_

What is the best way to break out of a highly defended building? Straight ahead, guns blazing, take no prisoners? Flank the sides, looking for the quickest escape, trying to minimise your time inside a hostile territory, outmanned and outgunned? Perhaps you take the sneaky route, slowly killing and upgrading as you go along?

Joshua considered all these questions as he and Jericho and Matt poked their head out of the door of their cramped cell, leaving Ethel behind them. Jericho then took a step out of the room into the corridor, and quickly scanned about.

"I can't see anyone. I can't see anything, in fact. It's just a white corridor. There's an exit down at the bottom of it though, a couple hundred feet away. If we move quick, we'll make it without anyone seeing us." Jericho whispered in a hushed tone.

This was exactly what they needed, thought Josh. An easy escape. They can't fend off the guards around here for too long anyway. Defeating all these dogmen in their own home territory, with nothing but a rusty .22 and the clothes on their back, is a tall order for the most trained soldiers. Yet how would two kids do it? No, this was the best chance they would get, so they took it.

Josh and Jer both started running down the corridor, with Matt following close behind. It was eerie how there was nothing here at all: just the bare peeling white walls surrounding them, the low wall above them, and their bare feet slapping the cold floor tiles beneath them. Josh's mind kept wandering back to thinking about what this building must have been pre-War.

The trio reached the great door to exit the building, and Josh went straight through, full of the desire to gain freedom from the terrible place behind him. He heard Jericho shout behind him as he pushed down on the metal bar of the door and flung it wide open, seeing in front of him a grass field, a vivid green that is very rare in London. The lush grass harped back to the time before the complete abandoning of meaning to the world, and looked thoroughly out of place compared to the grand monolithic buildings surrounding the grass, and the pot hole ridden roads leading away from the strange place.

As Josh took a step into this urban wilderness, he noticed too late what was at his side.

Josh saw the skull-headed man first. But it isn't until he sees the man in white that he is alerted to the danger.

It was the Dog Man! The man who took him in the first place here. The realisation caught up with him, ripping through his soul. It slammed the breath from him. For a second Josh was rooted to the spot. He then caught himself shouting _Run! _and his feet pounded the cement tiles beneath him and onto the green pitch in front of him. Josh is running, but it was not like at the Wharf. Hard as he pushes himself, desperately as he sprints to cross the grass and escape these madmen, something has gone since he has been captured – his self-belief, his conviction that he can win, the confidence that he had before that they were going to be OK, despite the odds, despite the danger. Everything they put into making a life at the Wharf, everything that they did to protect themselves and escape danger, and yet none of it made any difference when the helicopters flew in, and guns were being fired against their knives and lead piping.

_Somehow we've got to lose them._

But losing the Heralds is easier said than done. He could see the end of the grass was coming up ahead, but Skullhead and Dogface are closing in. Two more Heralds appear out in front of him. There's no way out now.

"Left! Left!" Josh hears a woman's voice shout at him. Jericho! He notices a small building to his side, and makes a beeline for it. He hurdles a crumbling brick wall and cuts down the alley, his pursuers in hot chase. The sunlight disappears above him, coming through only in irregular patches to light the way through the otherwise dark slalom of the backalleys and avenues of inner industrial London. Josh's territory.

He weaves in and out through the passageways until he finds himself in open ground, facing three monstrous grey towers on all three sides of him trapping him in, while the Heralds are closing in from behind. It's known as the Picadilly Avenue, or Picket among the street rats. Once you're in, they say, you're not going to leave in a hurry.

Sensing the Heralds behind him, Josh glances about to try and find where Jericho has gone. He urgently flings his head from side to side, looking around. He notices a house with a woman closing the curtains. An Englishman defending her castle. He sees to the side the heaped masonry and brickwork to the side of the building. There was probably some old refurbishment being done by local government to fix up and improve the city before the bombs flew. The refurbishment around the area half finished, there is just enough to climb up and get over the wall between two of the buildings and into another unknown, preferably one without the Heralds right behind him. He is sure you can get over there. He saw a leg fly over it so Jericho must have jumped over it. She must have jumped over it. She _must _have.

Josh keeps thinking if there is anywhere else she could have gone, but he notices shadows in the turning behind him grow larger and larger, the shouting of Heralds getting louder and louder. No time to think. Only time to act.

Sprinting across the waste ground, Josh is spurred on by the two dogs behind him. For some old men in huge white armoured suits, they seem to be able to move at astonishing speeds. Josh runs and runs, without looking behind to stop, Josh climbs up a sack of old cementing mixture in a single leap, getting up in height two maybe three feet. He jumped again, this time onto the orange cementing mixer getting another three or four feet up, an incredible jump made possible by the sheer will to live. Josh looked ahead at his target, the cold, unforgiving wall in front of him. He bent his knees. Jumped.

That moment, even though it barely lasted a second, seemed to go on and on. He first felt the cementing mixture begin to shake and wobble as he put his weight onto it. As his bare foot landed awkwardly on the surface, it curled into a fist, trying to grab something, anything for grip on his only way to safety. But at the end of the day it was only a foot. He couldn't get any grip from the surface underneath him, and it began to slowly topple. The cement mixer wobbled even more the more his weight fell onto it, but Josh was already completely invested in this leap. It wobbled more and more and he bent his leg to try in vain to keep the mixer upright. But it fell.

Josh however refused to give up. He made a half-jump, barely able to push himself into the air as the cement mixer fell, but he went for the wall in front of him anyway, almost a foot over him, towering in front of him. The brick wall, the colour of rusting iron, the shade of grey which held the line between his freedom and his capture, was the only obstacle left he had to surmount. He flailed madly at the wall, putting his all into getting an arm, a hand, a finger over the damned thing. He heard the Heralds behind him shout, what they shouted he couldn't understand, his concentration so entirely on getting over the wall.

The wall though was completely smooth. There was no ground to get footing on it. Josh managed to just get a finger over the thing, but it wasn't at all enough to be able to pull himself up and save his life. He kicked maniacally at the wall again and again in the space of no more than a second with the futile hope of gaining the footing he needed, but it was no use. He felt his finger come down from the top brick on the wall, then it come over the corner, then slide down its face.

Josh fell.


End file.
